


Marry Christmas

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-28 00:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13259769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bahorel and Jehan get a Christmas tree and have chemistree (haha) with each other. Pointless Christmas fluff.





	Marry Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I checked AO3 on a whim the other day and found a nice comment about a different fic that I knew I wrote a sequel to and then I found a portal to the hellmouth, aka 81 pages of unpublished Les Mis fic that I wrote four years ago. Then I was like, I should do a fic dump. I don't really know why I'm doing a fic dump. I haven't touched this fandom in years and like, life-wise I just finished grad school and stuff and am generally doing pretty decent. Anyway, here. I hope you enjoy?

“What are you guys doing tomorrow?” Grantaire had asked Jehan, leaning into Enjolras’ chest, because Enjolras is a ridiculous human being and had forcibly dragged Grantaire into his lap.

“We’re decorating the Christmas tree,” Jehan said.

"Nondenominational winter tree," Enjolras had interjected, voice muffled by Grantaire’s shoulder. Jehan rolled his eyes, pulling on his peacoat and scarf.

“Regardless,” he said. “Do not disturb. Will see you Sunday.”

 

The decorating was tradition, or one in the making, at least. Bahorel doesn’t know if two years running constitutes tradition, but they make it a point to set aside the first weekend in December solely for holiday-related activities. By the time he wakes up on Saturday morning, the living room is already strung with hundreds of Christmas lights, over the bookshelf and the fireplace mantle and even Bahorel's weight bench.

Bahorel kisses Jehan good morning, pulling on his gloves and coat so he can go find their tree.

“Find a good one,” Jehan calls cheerily as he walks out.

 

The tree he finds is one notch above ugly as sin. The back is sparse, but other than that the shape is okay and they could hide the ugly parts in the corner, Bahorel reasons. It’s all one color, at least, a blue fir that he knows will go nicely with the pale yellow of the living room, and, anyway, it was easier to just choose one with character, as Jehan would say, rather than fretting over the perfect tree. There’s enough to fret over already.

 

It’s annoying but not particularly difficult to lug the tree up to the second floor of the brownstone that has more or less become Bahorel’s apartment, too. When he manages to drag it through the door, though, Jehan gives him the million-watt smile that tells him he’s managed something right.

Bahorel helps him stand it in the tree stand before retreating to the kitchen to finish baking the gingerbread cookies he’d cut out and placed on trays, and then in the refrigerator to bake later.

Jehan is singing happily in Russian, unwinding even more twinkle lights and deftly wrapping them around the tree as Bahorel pulls the first batch of gingerbread people out of the oven. As they’re cooling he helps Jehan lift the star onto the top of the tree even if he doesn't have to—Jehan is only two or three inches shorter than he is, which still puts him over six feet—and, fine, he’s using it as an excuse to touch his boyfriend, fucking sue him.

(Boyfriend—the word will never _not_ fill him with warmth, which is really fucking sappy, which he wouldn't change for the world.)

He slides into place behind Jehan, hugging him from behind and burying his face in Jehan’s long ginger hair. It smells like it always does, like tangy-fruity-floral shampoo, shampoo Bahorel finds himself using when Jehan is gone.

Jehan reaches back, stretching his long, graceful arm around Bahorel’s neck and hugging him close.

"I love you, _malishka_ , but you’re making it hard to decorate." Jehan retracts his arm and turns without breaking Bahorel’s hold to kiss him, slow and easy and languid.

(Easy, it's so easy; it almost always is with them.)

"Break?" Bahorel asks hopefully. "Want to help me ice?"

"As long as you let me eat the frosting this time."

They only get a little distracted after Bahorel starts licking and sucking the frosting off of Jehan’s fingers, and, well, they’re only human.

 

By the time the cookies are done and they’re stuffed full of Thai takeout, the wind is howling outside and it has started to snow. In true Christmas cliché fashion, they’ve lit the fireplace and turned on the twinkle lights and watched exactly half of Die Hard before Jehan decides he wants hot chocolate and, yeah, maybe they should actually put ornaments on the tree.

 Jehan is stirring the Mexican hot chocolate on the stove (Bahorel’s mother’s recipe) while Bahorel hangs his ornaments. (He doesn’t have many—a few from his mother, a delicate blown glass bulb Feuilly had given him one year with a, “here, asshole,” one R had given him, made of scraps of metal welded together in a frankly dangerous-looking geometric shape, and, of course, the ones Jehan had given him the past two years.) He hangs the last, front and center and then—

"Your turn, _querido_."

Jehan starts pulling his ornaments from the box as Bahorel takes over hot chocolate duty, pouring them generous servings into their favorite mugs—Jehan’s spiky black one and his own delicate blue one decorated with porcelain rosettes. (A gag gift from Enjolras, who either deeply misunderstood Bahorel or the concept of a joke gift.)

            He returns to the living room and sets the hot chocolate on the coffee table and waits and hovers awkwardly and reminds himself to breathe and then—

"Rel, what's this?" Jehan turns and his face is already flooding with color, the small box held gently in his hands, the last ornament placed deliberately at the bottom of the box. Bahorel is there, right there, standing in front of him, gently touching his wrists, forcing himself not to grab Jehan’s hands like they’re a fucking lifeline.

"Open it," he says shakily.

So Jehan slides the ribbon off the box, the delicate, lacy ribbon Grantaire of all people had helped him pick out, and even the box is beautiful, porcelain and painted with tiny roses—and Jehan’s opening it and Bahorel doesn't know what he's doing but he's on his knees and he can't look away from Jehan’s face, watches his mouth form the word "what" rather than hearing it.

Jehan’s hand is covering his mouth and he’s searching Bahorel’s face for something, for—

"Marry me.” Everything he had planned to say flies out the window, the poetry, the Russian phrases Marius had taught him to say and that he’d carefully repeated until he could pronounce flawlessly, and, fuck, he was going to be graceful and romantic about this because that’s what Jehan deserves, he deserves _so_ much.

"I didn't think you—" Jehan stutters, face a mask of disbelief.  

"Marry me, marry me, god, Jehan you're—you're the best fucking thing that ever happened to me and I know—I know I’ve said I don't, fuck, I didn’t want to until I met you, _querido_ , I didn't know—" he pauses, slows down, breathes, because this is important and Jehan needs to hear it. “I didn’t know it could be like this with someone. And I don’t ever want it to be like this with anyone else.”

"Yes," Jehan says, breathless, dropping gracefully to his knees and peppering Bahorel’s face with kisses, still clutching the box in his hands. "Yes, yes, fuck, absolutely fucking yes."

Bahorel laughs and allows himself to close his eyes and when he opens them he's crying (when did he start crying, fuck’s sake?) and Jehan is kissing him breathless and it's perfect.

"Perfect—you're perfect," he says, laughing again.

"Fucking Christ, I love you," Jehan says, because he can. "I love you," he shouts, loud enough that their upstairs neighbors are definitely going to hear, and then shouts it again, because he can.

"It’s beautiful," Jehan says as Bahorel slides the ring on with shaking fingers.

"It’s not the one I wanted to buy you, I wanted I diamond, I wanted—"

He's cut off with a kiss. Jehan laughs.

“This is a diamond."

"I wanted to buy you a bigger one, I wanted—shitting fuck, I want to give you everything."

"You have," Jehan says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And stop insulting my fiancé—" And he can’t stop smiling, like the word gives him a thrill. “He chose a damn beautiful ring."

And it is, Jehan thinks. The stones are small, which he'd honestly prefer if it came down to it; the band is delicate in appearance but sturdy, silver, shaped like branches woven together with three little diamonds nestled between them.

By the time they get around to drinking the hot chocolate, it’s lukewarm and they can’t stop touching each other, lying pressed together under a blanket.

They can’t stop smiling, either.

“I cannot fucking wait to be your husband,” Bahorel says for probably the fiftieth time.

“Likewise, _moya lyubov_ , likewise.”


End file.
